Grief

And when everything is said and done. When the ducts can no longer form tears. When alcohol becomes ineffective.

There is finally nothing more to rely on.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Let your mental do the rest.

Like an embryo forming into a human being this metaphorical monster begins to manifest.

Out spring eight fingers and two thumbs that shoot straight down through the oesophagus in unison and grabs hold of your heart: maliciously ripping it to shreds to the point where breathing becomes a chore.

Idle hands now unoccupied look for their next victim. A stomach.

Wringing every nutrient it could possibly hold it squeezes as if its life depended on it. Until there is no more.

Job done.

All that is left is to escape this useless cave through punching through the cranium. And so they do. Until they are free. And you are paralysed.